


Bedded

by sunflowerwonder



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Doc Scratch!Dirk Strider, Fingering, Garters, Implication that Jake has spent his entire life inside the mansion., M/M, Mafia AU, Office Chair Sex, Promiscuity-Based Dirty Talk, Riding, Topping from the Bottom, and Kneesocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 03:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9416234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerwonder/pseuds/sunflowerwonder
Summary: Dirk Strider is the bitter, reluctant, primary adviser to the dastardly Lord English.Meanwhile, he takes up a physical relationship with the isolated English heir and isn't quite sure what to do about it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally from [Tumblr](http://dirkar.tumblr.com/post/153717521576/bedded-scratchdirkenglishjake-e).
> 
> I'm in the process of cleaning up a few of my more interesting Tumblr AUs and posting them here. The AO3 fics are edited to be somewhat more coherent than their Tumblr counterparts and I recommend reading them here. 
> 
> Cheers!

It was a pristine green billiard patch of an office dressed in thick, expensive velvet and the aroma of licorice. Dirk kept it orderly. His private quarters could be littered with all manner of robotic trinkets and muscular horse paraphernalia but here, in his workspace permitted by the Lord English himself, he liked to keep things a contrast to the estate’s general reign of chaos.

Every so often, though, he was guilty of letting a lopsided whirlwind of too-short shorts slip through the doorcrack to make a muck of things. Jake English, the younger, the brash, the wholehearted adventure, was fond of perching his ass on the edge of Dirk’s great green felt-lined desk from time to time. He would sit and stir and listen to the fireplace crackle and Dirk’s typewriter sing in a flurry of clicks and whistles. Always with a handful of licorice Scottydogs clutched in his hand. Always with a smile.

“Why’d'you always type in white ink, Scratch?” Jake asked one particularly mischievous afternoon, mouth full of more Scottydogs than it could surely chew.

“To keep rich brats from peering curiously over my shoulder,” Dirk replied. Easy and even. Borderline dry, though he was certainly not known for his gushing warmth.

“Come now,” Jake said. “I can see everything you’re typing if I sit still and peer close enough. It’s the barest shade off from the paper!”

“It seems you think I was implying you are the rich brat,” Dirk said, tap-tap-ringing on his little black machine. “Not all are blessed with your patience nor concentration, Jake.”

Jake seemed to bubble up into a smile at the use of his name. He let out a playful chuckle, shoving the remainder of his candy into his mouth before sliding his way a little farther along the desk. His thigh now threatened to brush against Dirk’s forearm but if the touch of a flushed leg against frightfully pale skin concerned the typist, it was shown only in the briefest breath between a part of lips.

“You really do hate him, don’t you,” Jake said. A loafered foot kicked out to poke teasingly at Dirk’s desk chair. “My father.”

“I’ve stated nothing of the sort,” Dirk said.

“So underhanded,” Jake teased.

“I like to think my hands are exactly where they need to be.”

“I think I’d prefer them on me, y'know.” Jake grinned wide. This time his kick was more of a sensual rub of his calf along the sleeve of Dirk’s collared shirt. The white typesheet in front of Dirk swam with suddenly indistinguishable cream marks. “If you’re done lowkey antagonizing your Lord and employer, that is.”

Dirk looked over to Jake’s figure—perched back on his hands, posture relaxed, legs spread, the same intentions as always and yet somehow still a surprise. There was something innocent about Jake English, Dirk supposed. Something that shouldn’t be propositioning sex at three in the afternoon while Dirk was busy drawing up a negative reply to a young, blonde, dreadfully sharp college girl wanting an internship.

“I haven’t mocked your father,” Dirk said, clicking down a few lines to begin his next point. “Nor am I about to further devalue him by bedding his son over my workdesk.”

“Is it still bedding if it’s on a desk?” Jake asked.

Dirk did not respond.

“Genuinely curious,” Jake said.

“Surely,” Dirk muttered.

“As in, ‘surely it still counts as bedding?’”

“No,” Dirk said. “As in, 'surely you’re genuinely curious.’ To imagine you ingenuine in your curiosity is to imagine a world unruled by common rationality. Where there is Jake English, there is guaranteed honesty. A hypothesis, maybe, but if there is no way to prove a hypothesis untrue should it not be considered probable, if not definite, fact?”

“You’re so obtuse,” Jake said. “I wish you’d fuck me.”

The words were not foreign on Jake’s lips but they sent a heat coursing through Dirk just the same. He was only halfway through the first sentence of a new paragraph when he slipped his fingers from the keys.

“'Bedding’ is a specified term for sex that carries enough metaconnotation of setting that, due largely to locative concerns, it could not be used in reference to fucking you over my desk,” Dirk offered, finally. His right hand drifted to the skin of Jake’s exposed thigh. Fingers, calloused from typing, ran slowly around the circular garter designed to keep his kneesocks held up. “I think, though, due to the cushioned structure and similar compositional fabric, we might be able to get away with such activities on my desk chair.”

Jake laughed at this, squirming when Dirk dipped inside the elastic to tug at his garter. “A linguistic stretch, maybe,” the younger English said. “But I’m nothing if not flexible.”

Jake jumped when Dirk snapped the strap back down against his lower thigh. Then gave a final, playful chuckle at the startle as if it was an inside joke with himself. He watched as Dirk moved to unlock a lower desk drawer filled with what could only be labeled as “distractions.” Jake swung his loafers together in anticipation, posture drawing forward in his eagerness.

A jingle of keys and slide of stained oak later, Dirk produced a small bottle of lube placed within Jake’s eyesight. Next to it, a soft, clean washcloth. Jake admired them as if old friends, eyes refusing to leave them even as Dirk slid him by his ass across the top of the desk and pressed a gentle hand to his chest to lower him back, longways, against the surface. If he raised his vision back, he could just barely see the edge of the typewriter lingering beyond his forehead.

Dirk’s hands were back at Jake’s thighs. It was impossible for him to not grip the strip of exposed flesh between tailored cuff and sock, or hook his thumbs into the tight garters, or skim his palms across the sensitive underside beneath Jake’s knees up to the hemline of the shorts just barely covering his ass. Jake happily accepted the attention though. Writhed and squirmed and giggled as Dirk untucked the tails of his collared shirt and slipped off his cherry-brown loafers. The bowtie was the last of the accessory excess to go. Dirk unknotted it dutifully, fingers only brushing the soft, flushed skin of Jake’s neck a few times and entirely on purpose. Jake’s eyes drifted to the ceiling at the slow ritual, hazy and lost but accented with encouragement by the grin sliding across his face. When Dirk finally removed the slice of green silk, unbuttoning the first few buttons of Jake’s shirt for added effect, Jake was more than happy enough to tilt his head upwards to present Dirk a crisper view of sunkissed skin and a single, fading bruise left by Tuesday’s tryst. He was aware of his best angles.

“So easy,” Dirk commented, unbuckling his own belt for some simple relief beneath the weight of Jake’s sexual admission. He set the leather aside and slipped a hand beneath the left cuff of Jake’s shorts just to see Jake stir at the skin contact.

“To the right parties,” Jake replied. His voice lifted at the end, an awry touch from Dirk sending his thighs pressing together. “I confess I find you very…huh.” Dirk’s hand thumbed his zipper, teasing but reserved. He took a deep breath. “Very efficient.”

“I pride myself on such qualities,” Dirk said. He pulled down the zipper with a slow grace, too patient to be sexy.

“Oh yes, your qualities,” Jake huffed. He always felt exposed and untouched, but now more than ever. “So competent, so insatiable.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“I’m sure you’ve got your qualities all filed away somewhere with little sticky note annotations like a proper schoolboy, you absolute square.”

“I reckon myself a sphere, actually,” Dirk said. “Simple. Clean. Difficult to emulate.”

“Oh bloody hell, Dirk. Just do everyone present a damn favor and touch me.”

Jake made a heavenly sound when Dirk finally pressed a hand to the front of his tightening briefs, the deep forest green fabric already growing damp at the tip of him. Dirk stroked Jake’s clothed cock with light, even touches until the sensitive squirm of the action forced Jake to draw his feet up from where they were hanging off the desk edge to find purchase on the surface. Dirk took advantage of this action to drag Jake’s shorts and underwear away from his ass, sliding them down across warm thighs, slipping garters, and woolen kneehighs until they were free of his body.

Jake was thoroughly mussed. And Dirk wasted no time admiring him. Jake’s hair was a splayed tangle of dark curls against the desk, his eyes a distant green, his hands laid lax, his neck bared, his cock already leaking.

“You’re gorgeous,” Dirk said.

“I thought I was easy,” Jake replied with playful bite.

“I don’t find fault in multiple talents,” Dirk said, pressing gartered, bent knees around his waist as he leaned down over his afternoon companion. “I can appreciate having easy access to my own renaissance man.”

“What a lovely phrase to coin a slut,” Jake said, rolling his hips against Dirk’s obnoxiously white suit.

“I suppose I’ve always been a man of too many words.”

“Yet you’re only just realizing as much?” Jake smiled. "Then I should let you know that this is the part where you finger me with minimal commentary, love.”

Dirk kissed him instead. A long and languid thing. Accented in desperate sighs and a lingering taste of licorice. Jake bucked his hips fully now, and Dirk felt a heat fuel him to be faster, rougher, closer, closer, closer to the source of Jake’s echoing cry.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, breaking them apart, grinding the front of his slacks against Jake’s naked cock until they both had to gasp for breath. It was abrupt and off-rhythm in a way that sent Dirk reeling. Tantalizing in a way that unraveled him to basic instinct.

“You want me,” Jake cooed. Dirk did. Truly. “I suggest you start working towards earning it.”

Dirk reached for the lube without further prompting.

Jake shuddered beneath him at the mere pop of the bottle cap. Shook further as the first, simple digit pressed against his hole. Each breath was heavy as he willed himself to relax. Dirk leaned to kiss him again, tongue swiping behind oversized front teeth. Jake’s arms clutched at broad shoulders desperate and strong when his ass swallowed the digit to the second knuckle.

Dirk didn’t dare move his finger as Jake adjusted to the sensation. He only offered a few soft shushes to Jake’s raspy, gasped breaths and let Jake buck freely up and down the single finger.

For a lengthy ten seconds Jake fucked himself in sharp, erratic bursts of hips against nothing but Dirk’s palm. Then, with a groan of frustration, settled himself to smoother motions. Dreamy, slow cants that made Dirk think of early morning intimacy and Jake gazing lidded at him from the silken sheets of a real mattress, a real relationship.

“Easy,” Dirk said, a hand sliding beneath Jake’s shirt, tone as soothing as it had ever been.

“I know I am,” Jake coughed.

“Different context and semantics, but yeah,” Dirk said, a smile spreading on his face. “You’re still that kind of easy, too.”

The second finger wasn’t quite as dramatic, but the beatcount of Jake’s hips flared just the same. This time Dirk did not have the patience to watch Jake try and fuck himself on stilled fingers (though his subconscious still begged him to hold, to witness,) and so he settled himself a diligent, steady rhythm of pumping in and out of an increasingly vocal Jake.

When Dirk curled his fingers against loosening walls on an exit pull, Jake seized around Dirk with such force his dick ached at the missed opportunity to be wrapped in such compressing warmth. Socks too smooth in their fineness slid along the desktop, desperate to find grounding to cling to. Dirk denied assisting them in favor of swooping down to kiss Jake again. On the neck, this time. So that Jake would shrug his chin down to defend from the ticklish affection only for a well-aimed thrust of fingers to send his head sailing backwards and neck exposed all over again. It was a heavy cycle of overstimulation that only increased by the admission of a third finger. Dirk found pride in the undoing of Jake English.

“God,” Jake sighed out, rolling his hips at the widened intrusion inside him. He was flushed from every angle. Desperate and unashamed for stimulation. His knees tightened against Dirk’s sides on a particularly gratifying thrust. He slid his hands down to where the edge of his collared shirt was teasingly lapping at the base of his cock—no longer able to deny himself the touch.

Then, suddenly, Dirk was gone. Jake let out a cry at the final drag against his prostate before being struck by a punch of emptiness. He swallowed and refocused his vision to see Dirk walking away from him.

“Scratch,” he barked, throat dry. He sat up on his elbows and glared. Quite the ravaged sight in nothing but a crumpled once-starched shirt and gartered suitsocks.

“Just admiring the view,” Dirk commented, softly. He took a few more steps back until he could sink into his office chair. He sat back in the oversized cushions, rested his elbows on the armrests, and pressed his fingertips together with a soft hum. Appraising. Lustful.

Jake found some stimulation at the attention, but it was far from enough.

“It used to be his, you know,” Jake said, sliding off the desk. He pulled a fallen garter up and listened closely for Dirk’s near-silent exhale of breath at the sight.

“Mm,” Dirk responded, distant.

“The chair,” Jake said. “It used to be in his own office.”

“Your father has fine taste in furniture,” Dirk commented, eyes drawing across every line of Jake’s legs.

“Very fine,” Jake said. “I’d give my fortune for him to see you fucking me on it.”

Dirk could do nothing but let out an abrupt wheeze of a laugh, fingers breaking apart in order for him to collect himself in the reticle of Jake English.

“Is that what this is then,” Dirk said. “Daddy-spite.”

“Don’t act as if you don’t have an interest in the subject of spurning the absolute bastard yourself.”

“Ah,” Dirk said. “But I happen to still be enamored with you despite ulterior intentions.”

“I’m fond of you!” Jake said in protest. He stepped nearer, close enough to see the growing need in Dirk’s eyes. "And the fact that you’ve got a rather dashing cock is no small object either.”

“I’d hope you wouldn’t consider it a small object,” Dirk replied.

“Words, words, _wordplay_ ,” Jake called. “That’s all you’re good for.”

Dirk laughed some more. Beckoned him closer. “Let me show you otherwise.”

Jake sunk his knees into the buttered leather of the chair with no further protest. They clicked nicely around Dirk’s own, an easy straddle with only one arm reached to grip against the top of the chair for balance. The other was quick to extend down to Dirk’s zipper.

Dirk kept his arms on the armrests and made no move to assist. He simply watched Jake release him from his pristine white slacks, and gave a sharp whistle of breath when he was finally taken in hand. Jake pumped him a few times, ensuring Dirk was fully involved, before Jake felt a rush of hands behind him and the sudden prod of fresh lube against his hole.

“Dirk,” he moaned as Dirk resumed his ministrations. Two fingers, them three, with almost no warning. He had few ideas when Dirk had recoated them. They resumed their previous pace with only a handful of off-beats and stalled thrusts. Seamless and angled. Dirk’s other hand placed the battleworn bottle of lube to Jake’s own palm. Heavy and implied to prepare the growing cock beneath him.

“How do you expect me to work when you spoil me so,” Jake called, canting his hips as Dirk dove particularly deep with him. He stuttered a few breaths, relishing in the way Dirk kneaded at his ass.

“Is it so much to ask for a turn of favors,” Dirk replied. His voice wavered in its attempts to remain steady. Jake was an overwhelming sight, disheveled and pantsless and begging for every bruise left by Dirk’s fingertips. It was too much. Too encompassing. A tip-thirsty barman filling his glass until it flowed over the rim with rich liquid, a call for seconds and thirds and fifths and twentieths with only the barest unconcerned glance at his already inebriated psyche.

Jake wrapped a slathered hand around him and all of a sudden he was no longer in the body of a bar fool but in the sinful drink itself, vibrant and full and golden behind his eyelids as he squeezed them shut and felt his eyes roll upwards.

“Fuck, Jake,” he cursed, tongue heavy. Jake’s lips were on his again. Warm and lovebitten. Dirk stilled his fingers.

“Let me have you,” he whispered to lips that mouthed at him like an animal. To the hands stroking down his cock. To the ass that swallowed his fingers dutifully. “Please.”

“As if I would ever make it hard for you,” Jake said in turn, hand already angling his grip of Dirk to line himself up properly. Dirk slipped his fingers out of Jake and allowed him to take his time with the penetration. Jake hummed at the process, eager to the point of impatience.

With practiced ease Dirk found the head of his cock pressing inside Jake, already threatening to sink down lower.

“Take it slow,” Dirk said. His hands were heavy on Jake’s hips. “Slower. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Jake replied. Short and sweet and ripe with the thick pressure of Dirk, Dr. Scratch, the wise, the asshole, the right hand man to Lord English himself, sliding inside him and setting every sensation in his nerves ablaze.

In one seemingly fatal drop he took Dirk to the hip. He settled comfortably atop Dirk’s lap—grinning and proud like he’d just climbed Everest—and pressed his hands across the lapels of Dirk’s tacky suit jacket. He took a moment to straighten them, like a doting housewife and not the shamelessly filled harlot he most confidently was.

“Jake,” Dirk muttered. His hands slid up Jake’s side, beneath the wrinkled remains of his button down.

“Feel well enough?”

“Like sticking my dick in hell and heaven all at once.”

“Cheers, love.”

With that, Jake began to move. It was a slow but sturdy start. The rise and fall of Dirk’s cock inside him did wonders for his vocal chords. He cherished each inch like its own love affair. Warm and scandalous and so, so fleeting. His rhythm only picked up speed when Dirk released a long, pitiful groan and looked up with pleading eyes at where Jake loomed above him. So desperate. So gold.

“So pretty,” Jake said. The grind of his hips was firmer now. Rhythmic and circular and so, so deep.

“Mm,” Dirk responded. His hips thrusted upwards as much as they could. As strong as they could. The hands on Jake’s waist were bruising.

“You know, if I was in charge around here you’d never get any work done.”

“As if I do now.”

“Hm,” Jake said. “You know, you really can just call me a slut.”

Jake felt something amidst Dirk shift. Beneath him, the man set his jaw and dragged Jake nearer, against his chest, embracing him in a way that was too tight to be romantic, but just firm enough to throw Jake off his balance and leave him open and easy to thrust up against. Jake gasped as Dirk sunk deep, deeper into him. Squirmed against arms that refused to let him sit up again.

“Oh,” Jake called. “Oh, _oh_ — _Dirk_ —”

Each word was accented by the drag of Dirk pulling him downwards and a sharp thrust of Dirk’s hips against his ass. Aggressive and possessive and tipping along the edge of complete unravelment. Jake slumped against Dirk’s body, his head nestled comfortably in the crook of Dirk’s shoulder, and bounced along in easy time as Dirk took what he wished.

“Fuck,” Dirk said through gritted teeth and a scrunched expression. His thumbs dug into the soft flesh above Jake’s hipbones. “Fuck, you feel—so good—”

“Just like that,” Jake breathed out, airy and drunk on the thickness inside him. He was well aware of how much he was leaking onto Dirk’s suit. “Further, further—oh bloody hell, Dirk, you have no business being so _big_ —”

Dirk grunted out something that sounded like Jake’s name and released a hand from its vicegrip in order to wrap it harshly around Jake’s dick. His reward was the sharp arch of Jake’s back as he sunk gratefully onto Dirk’s cock, squirming in Dirk’s lap as typist fingers dragged along his length to squeeze near-painfully beneath the head. Jake shuddered and gasped and felt himself tighten around Dirk, thoughts lost to his impending orgasm.

A final thrust sent him sprawling over the edge. Speckled white graced his vision as he unloaded himself over Dirk’s pristinely dressed torso, sticky and thick and satisfied. His thighs shook as he came down from the coveted high. His breath was ragged. His smile broad.

Dirk fucked him through it. Tired and overstimulated as he was he allowed himself to still be bucked up into, against, inside of. Dirk seemed beyond coherency. His eyes distant but his grip unyielding.

Jake laughed in a sleepdrunk sort of way at the liquid coating his insides. It was hot and a little gross within him, the substance slipping out to coat the dick and slacks of a man just barely coming back to reality. Dirk’s grip on him loosened, but Jake made no move to remove himself from his seat on Dirk’s thighs.

“Every time I fuck you I remember the real reason your father keeps you locked up in this godforsaken mansion,” Dirk said, eyes slowly refocusing.

“Oh?”

“Pretty sure your ass alone could instigate a revolution against him,” Dirk muttered, tracing light fingertips over Jake’s skin. “I know I’d follow it backwards into any and all abysses.”

“I love you when you orgasm. You say the absolute funniest nonsense,” Jake said.

“I love you when you orgasm,” Dirk replied simply. Soft. Easy.

Jake patted a light hand against his cheek, affectionate and a bit teasing. He finally stood up on his knees to free Dirk from inside him. His legs were shaky as he slid off from the chair, but just strong enough to support him giving a final squeeze to Dirk’s dick as he stepped towards his discarded clothing.

“You’re an eccentric, Scratch,” Jake called, sliding on his garments yet making little other effort to look less recently-fucked. Dirk knew he enjoyed parading the fact—parading the barest grasp at agency—and failed to comment.

“You’re lovely,” Dirk offered instead.

“Thank you,” Jake said. He grinned as he slung his bowtie, unknotted, around his shirtcollar. Dirk watched him maneuver his way towards the door.

“Jake,” he called. He finally felt as if he could control his own movements again, and sat up as eloquently as he could while covered in their mutual mess.

Jake looked back towards him.

“You’re the best slut I’ve ever met.”

“Of course,” Jake replied. He clicked open the doorhandle. “ _Ciao._ ”


End file.
